


some people left for heaven without warning

by janie_tangerine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Angst and Feels, Drinking & Talking, Drunkenness, Gen, House Stark, Inspired by Music, Jon Snow knows something, POV Multiple, Past Character Death, Post-Canon, Robb Stark is a Gift, The Author Regrets Everything, Wakes & Funerals, What Have I Done, he's not even technically in this since he's dead but bear with me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-25
Updated: 2017-04-25
Packaged: 2018-10-23 20:52:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10727013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janie_tangerine/pseuds/janie_tangerine
Summary: in which, after everything is sad and done, Robb Stark gets a proper funeral. Maybe it's eventually what he would have wanted.





	some people left for heaven without warning

**Author's Note:**

> ... So, years ago I had one of those moments of epiphany in which I thought, hey, you know, [the body of an american](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/pogues/sallymaclennane.html) could have been written about Robb if you changed a few details around. Then I thought HEY BUT WHAT ABOUT THE SURVIVING STARKS AND THEON GETTING DRUNK AT HIS FUNERAL. Then I realized I couldn't ever kill Robb in an AU which would have made it a lot more fitting with the source, so it turned into 'hey they get drunk at his funeral IN CANON', and then I prompted it everywhere I could because I didn't think I had it in me to write it. Then it didn't happen from anyone else and lately I had been thinking about it again because this darned plot has been haunting me since I came up with it and I thought screw it, let's just write it.
> 
> Here you go, this is 10k of people holding Robb a funeral, getting drunk, talking shit through and getting even more drunk, and hopefully achieving some kind of catharsis, and it's also 10k of myself pretty much exhausting my reserve of angst for the year. Is2g I'm only writing fluff until the year is over. Have fun.
> 
> Also: the only thing that's mine is the plot, the paragraph titles are from the aforementioned song above while the title is still from the pogues but not the song in question (because I used all the good title lines for the paragraphs and so I had to grab the main one from sally mclennane OPS) and just, I'm sorry in advance.
> 
> ( ~~PS: if anyone's wondering if I thought this shit up while, YEARS AGO, I was catching up on The Wire, you totally nailed it. Blame that fucking show for introducing me to the pogues and to those two songs used in wakes, gdi.~~ )

 

 

****1\. we turned and shook as we had a look in the room where the dead man lay (rickon)** **

 

Rickon doesn’t remember the crypts ever not being dark.

Admittedly, there are a lot of things he doesn’t remember. The crypts, once, were always barely lightened. He thinks he remembers hiding in them for a while, a long time ago, but it’s a blur. His wolf probably remembers it better than Rickon himself does, but he’s not in any hurry to drag those memories up. Anyway, they were dark. Always dark.

But _today_ , there are torches and candles everywhere, from the entrance to the lowest level, and he’s silent as he steps beside his sisters while walking down the stairs leading downwards, toward –

Toward where the funeral is being held.

Shaggy growls softly at his side along with Nymeria, who’s in between Arya and Sansa.

Ghost and Summer are crouched farther ahead, near the slab of stone behind which Jon’s standing. His skin looks almost as ashen pale as his wolf’s as he looks down at the small wooden box he’s holding in his hands.

A whole lot of northern lords Rickon has no use for and whose names he can’t remember are standing behind the three of them and Bran, who had been sitting in front row since before they arrived.

There’s a new statue, still covered with a piece of gray cloth with the Stark banner sewn on the top.

There’s no corpse – Rickon _knows_ that, at least. There are a lot of things he doesn’t know or remember, but _that_ , that he does. There had been enough talking about it in the previous months, and stories of how his brother met his untimely end reached Skaagos same as they reached all of Westeros.

Bran’s face looks as if it was sculpted in stone right now. He looks so much older, Rickon thinks, and doesn’t voice the thought. _All_ of them look so much older than he remembers them, for what he recalls.

For that matter, Rickon doesn’t really _remember_ Robb proper. Or better, he _does_ , but it’s not consistent memories. What he’s sure of, though, is that in _all_ of them he looked so much younger than _all of the others_ are right now. Sansa smiles sweetly the way she used to and the way _Robb_ used to, but there’s something weary about her and the way she holds herself upright and about how she doesn’t sing as much as she used to. The only thing Rickon remembers her doing is singing. But she doesn’t do that, now. Arya – Arya honestly scares him sometimes, and not because she’s good with a sword or with a bow, Osha also is good with bows and her friends on Skaagos were even better. It’s because sometimes she looks outside the window and her eyes are just – empty. Not in the way they become when she slips inside Nymeria. They just – go blank.

Rickon doesn’t really want to ask her how it happened, and so he doesn’t. He barely even remembers his sister being any other way.

He never tells her that and he never will, same as he’s _never_ going to tell Bran the same thing –

Except that Bran is _worse_. At least Arya does usually reply if you call her name loud enough.

Whenever Bran’s eyes are empty in _that_ way, he comes back eventually, but not when he’s called.

Right now, Rickon can’t help thinking that he has a man’s hands now, long fingers wrapped around the armrests of seat he still can’t leave and probably never will, and he remembers how small and soft they were when they were wrapped around his own in the crypts.

Sansa is maybe the only one who hasn’t changed _too much_ outwardly. She’s still as beautiful and ladylike as he remembers her being, even if she doesn’t smile half as much and never sings anymore. She used to sing all the time, it’s the one thing he can recall for sure, but – not now. Other than that, though, she’s not _that_ different.

On the other hand, Jon, who’s dressed in a dark grey that Rickon only remembers their father wearing, is almost the worst of them all.

And it’s just – strange, because in a lot of those few memories he has, Robb and Jon were together and while they were different when it came to bulk, hair and eye color and even the shape of their face, they had the same carefree smiles (Jon used to be somewhat more sullen, but he _did_ smile) and they were just – they looked _old_ to him, but maybe, he thinks now, he was dead wrong.

Now, if he thinks about Robb he sees bright copper hair, a sweet smile, eyes that were the same as his own (and Bran’s, and Sansa’s), and strong but still somewhat soft fingers ruffling his hair.

Jon – Jon has a few streaks of white in his hair that age him a good few years, has grown a short beard that adds even more years to the age he looks like, has a few lines etched in his forehead and his cheeks that Rickon is sure he’s never seen on anyone younger than five and thirty, and he’s standing behind that slab of rock as if he was dragging an equally heavy one on his shoulders.

That’s not counting the woman dressed in black at the end of the first row. Rickon has never met her before today, but he has learned she was Robb’s wife. She’s _completely_ covered in black clothing, she’s keeping her hands firmly clasped on her stomach and whenever she looks up at the slab then she looks back down at once. She looks like she’s about to break down crying any moment.

The worst, though, is probably Theon.

Rickon’s memories of the man are likewise not too clear – on one side he remembers him always at Robb’s side and on the other he _does_ remember why they had to hide out in those crypts for that long, but back then he also was young and lean and dressed finely and moved around as if he owned the space he was standing in.

Now –

Now he’s standing next to the girl standing next to Sansa (Rickon doesn’t really remember Jeyne Poole, but they’ve told him that was her name), staring ahead at that slab as if he _has_ to because it’s some kind of punishment he has to bear. His hair is a strange reversal of Jon’s – Jon’s is mostly dark with white streaks, Theon’s is a pale grey but it’s growing back dark at the roots, he’s lost all muscle, is wearing gloves but it’s obvious he’s missing a few fingers, he’s wearing nondescript gray clothes meant to _not_ look be noticeable, and Rickon’s sure that the few times they talked, and those were _painful_ conversations, he had silver fake teeth in place of half of his own.

And he doesn’t just look old.

He looks _ancient_ , in comparison to the others and in comparison to what Rickon remembers.

It’s strange, because he can’t reconcile that face with the one he remembers, nor his current attitude with the one he used to have (from what little he can recall).

Something tells him the Theon he knew wouldn’t have been found holding someone’s hand in public, but he has his fingers threaded with Jeyne Poole’s now, and _she_ also looks different from before (older, and thinner, and missing a small piece of her nose), and –

In his memories, Robb’s nothing like any of them. He’s still young and doesn’t have any lines on his face and smiles like he means it, and maybe, maybe it’s a good thing that there isn’t a corpse to bury even if it somehow feels wrong. Every funeral he saw on Skaagos, they had a body they’d bury with all the honors he or she deserved. Now there isn’t one.

There’s just that sad little box in Jon’s hands and a covered statue behind him, and it’s plain obvious that Jon doesn’t want to be the one delivering a speech, same as it’s obvious that he feels uncomfortable in their father’s gray and that he doesn’t feel like he has a right to be in the place he’s currently occupying.

(Rickon doesn’t want to think that Jon’s only occupying that place until _he_ becomes old enough to step into it. It’s too daunting and _too much_ and – not just now.)

One of the guards comes up to Jon and tells him, _everyone is accounted for, my lord_.

Jon grimaces and nods and clears his throat.

Rickon would have never in his life imagined he’d attend his brother’s funeral this soon and barely even remembering him.

But maybe, he thinks, looking at the faces surrounding him, _maybe_ he’s better off than the others who actually do, and he vows to himself to never voice that thought out loud. He has a feeling it’s the last thing any of them wants to hear.

 

****2\. so he made his last trip to the shores where his father's laid (arya)** **

 

The moment Jon clears his throat, Arya snaps to attention, whilst before she had been completely ignoring her surroundings. She doesn’t really want to be here and she doesn’t really want to do this, and good gods but burying what little remains of her brother’s bones wasn’t how she had pictured coming back home for good, but –

But she has to do it, she supposes.

At least she doesn’t have to be the one to _talk_ about it, and she can’t even begin to imagine how Jon is feeling right now.

She also can’t begin to imagine what would her mother have said about a scenario where Jon is Rickon’s regent and _he_ has to bury her firstborn when it was obvious that she was never too happy about how much Robb and Jon were close – she was less obvious about it when it came to the Arya and Jon, but never mind.

At least, she thinks bitterly, Robb is getting a burial at all. She’s _not_ going to think about what she knows of how her own mother died the second time – when it comes to Robb’s burial, she will have to deal with it soon enough. Admittedly, _now_.

“My lords,” Jon says, and if his voice shakes for a moment on the first word, then he stands up straight and doesn’t let that affect him.

His hands are still grabbing the box hard enough that his knuckles are turning white.

“My lords, we are gathered here today for a burial I am sure none of us ever wanted to attend. Or at least, not this soon.” He breathes in once, twice, then raises his stare from the box to the rest of the room. “My brother – your king, he should have lived a long life, and he should have rightfully taken Lord Stark’s place. That could not happen because of the treacherous act that ended it along with the life of many others who should be, likewise, alive to this day. This is most probably a sad affair in comparison to what it could have been, and his body should have been allowed to rest along with his ancestors’.”

Arya doesn’t miss that Jon is carefully avoiding saying anything along the lines of _our_ ancestors, _my brother_ or anything that would remind everyone of his status – never mind that now that the entire realm knows who his parents really were, he tends to discuss it even less.

“We were only able to retrieve part of his bones, and from what we know, they were mixed with his direwolf’s, but if there’s one thing I’m sure of, it is that Robb Stark wouldn’t have minded being buried with him. There’s all that is left, and we shall lay it down to rest where he belonged.”

He takes another deep breath, then turns slightly and unveils the statue.

It’s… well, remarkably good, as far as the likeness goes. It does look like Robb, sort of, also because all of them bar Rickon gave the sculptor extremely detailed descriptions. It’s only from the waist up, and of course it’s only marble, but the curly hair, the short beard and the large eyes are there, and Arya is glad to see that the man went along with what Sansa suggested and sculpted Robb’s mouth smiling and not drawn in a thin line like most of the others.

At least that. All of them remembered him like _that_ , at least… at least the ones who spoke about him to the sculptor.

(Theon had said nothing but it was obvious he _didn’t_ necessarily remember Robb smiling. Arya never asked. It’s still weird enough to have him around, but she’ll trust Jon and Sansa and Jeyne and _Bran_ of all people when they say he also can be trusted.)

“May he rest in peace,” Jon says, and slides the box in the small hole neatly carved beneath the statue.

Someone will come back later to seal it.

Now, Arya thinks, this is the point where people would maybe say a few words about their liege lord or king or brother or friend, but understandably, no one steps forward to do it, and she has a feeling that _all_ of the people inside this room who knew her brother and would maybe want to talk about him don’t want to do the same in front of anyone else who isn’t family.

Sure as the seven hells, she doesn’t want to.

“I believe,” Jon says after a long moment, “that it’s time we head upstairs. We shall remember him as we dine.”

Everyone stands up and moves, throats clearing and feet stepping quickly outside. Of course, no one _wanted_ to be here and the sooner they leave, the better.

Arya puts a hand on her sword and falls into step next to Jon and Rickon – she isn’t the entirety of _their_ Kingsguard for nothing. Rickon, though, runs ahead with Shaggy and Ghost next to him and Arya just lets him – the wolf will make sure nothing happens to him. Jon, instead, looks as if he just wants to go to bed and sleep for the next three months.

“I – it wasn’t really what I had wanted,” Jon sighs. “But anything I thought of, _someone_ could have criticized.”

“You did fine,” Arya tells him curtly. “I don’t think you could have done any better. But I doubt it was what any of us wanted.”

Jon sighs, wrapping himself tighter in his furs. Arya can’t help noticing the burns still covering his hand, which he never talks about, but given that she knows where they’re from, she can understand why.

“I was thinking,” he whispers, “that maybe we should all have a private… moment later. To remember him. Because I really doubt that we will be able to in the next few hours.”

“Should I tell the others?”

“Please. If they agree, they should just stay behind after everyone else leaves.”

“Understood.”

He gives her a small, tired smile that somehow still reminds her of the ones he used to give her when they were kids and a lot less old and wary and with a lot less blood on their hands.

As they dine, she carefully moves around the table and informs Theon and Lady Westerling first, then Bran (who tells her that he already knew but he appreciates her informing him nonetheless) and then she moves to sit in her place next to Sansa.

The food looks absolutely unappealing, she decides as she takes a bite of meat before asking Sansa if she agrees.

But then again, there is absolutely nothing appealing about this day. The only good thing is that at least Robb’s remains aren’t at the mercy of wind, rain and hail while nailed outside Walder Frey’s castle.

It’s not really a good consolation, but she’ll take what she can get.

 

**3. fare thee well going away, there's nothing left to say (sansa)**

   

“Jon says we should all… stay after the others leave,” Arya whispers as she drops in her seat.

“Stay here?”

“Yes. We should… have a small celebration ourselves.” Arya shrugs, grabbing a spoon and pushing her food around the plate. It’s obvious that she’s not hungry. None of them is, Sansa imagines.

“To do what we should have done earlier and… say a few words? Remember him properly?” She keeps her voice low lest someone else hears them, but everyone seems engrossed in their food and no one is paying attention to the two of them. Good thing that.

“Yes,” Arya confirms. “I think we should. I mean, that was a bloody sorry service.”

Sansa doesn’t even bother telling her not to swear. Never mind that Arya _does_ have a point – it was indeed a bloody sorry service and nothing like her brother deserved.

Honestly, Robb deserved better all-around, and not just for his funeral. He deserved _better_ period, from life and from death and from everyone else, not a service where praising him would have sounded like a slap in the face to all the people in the room who lost someone at the Red Wedding. And it’s hardly the worst part – a lot of the attendants had sided with the Boltons out of need or had not lifted a finger to help the ones who had conspired to bring a Stark back to Winterfell, but then they had provided help when the White Walkers were an imminent danger and it would have been hardly… courteous to exclude them or to remind them that they owed their alliance to someone else.

“Very well,” she agrees, “I see nothing wrong with it. Besides…”

“Besides?”

Besides, Robb once _did_ tell her how he had wished his funeral would be.

She doesn’t know what prompted it – maybe one day they had been visiting the crypts after escaping their mother’s supervision, back before she decided doing that kind of thing wasn’t ladylike enough. Yes, that had been the case. They had been standing in front of Aunt Lyanna’s grave and Robb had stared at it and a few others and then she had told her –

“Besides,” she whispers, not quite eating her food either, “once we were in the crypts and he said that all those statues looked _sad_ and Father always looked like that, too, whenever he visited and came back to Winterfell. And – he said, _I don’t want my funeral to be like that_.”

“… Well, good to know we aren’t honoring his wishes on top of that.”

“Maybe we still can. After, he said – he said, _I hope everyone I know will be there and they will remember all the good times we had and that they will have fun_.” He had been smiling as he did. Obviously, he had imagined living a long, fulfilled life at the end of which everyone might have missed him but would have understood that it was his time to go.

Certainly, he hadn’t been imagining _this_.

“Then he said, _they should tell stories about those good times. Maybe eat and drink. I don’t want my funeral to be sad_.”

“… How old were the both of you?”

Sansa shrugs, trying to recall as she eats some of her stew so that no one starts wondering why she’s not doing so. “I think he was one and ten. I must have been seven or eight. Little did we know, didn’t we?”

Arya pretty much stabs her stew before eating it.

“Well then, I think we should open the reserves of Dornish the moment everyone else walks out of this room. At least we can get _that_ right.”

At least. Sansa has never relished the prospect of being _drunk_ , but this is the first time in her life she understands fully the allure of consuming half a bottle of good Dornish red. She glances at the corner of the room where _her_ own guard is staying, and she thinks she might ask him to stay but… no, subjecting someone who gave up on wine and bettered themselves for it to a whole lot of drunken people who miss their brother like a limb would not be fair, so she won’t.

She keeps on eating as Arya slips out of her seat and goes to Jon, whispering something in his ear, and then moving on to the far end of the table where Theon and Jeyne are sitting. Jon turns towards her and sends her a _look_ that says, _we are doing what you said later_ – they had to share duties for long enough during the Long night that by now they don’t need to speak to each other to _talk_.

Good.

Sansa doesn’t stop the serving girl when she asks if my lady would want some wine and she fills the glass halfway.

It’s…. somehow it does not look like it’s enough, but she supposes she will have more of that later.

 _Robb, this is for you_ , she thinks, recalling how he smiled when he said he wanted people to be _happy_ at his own funeral, and then she takes a long, long drink.

(Maybe if she hides her face behind the cup, no one will see that she’s about to start crying.)

She can’t pretend to be happy _now_.

But later – later, she’s going to try at all costs. They owe him at least that much.

 

****4. and he never threw a fight unless the fight was right, so they sent him to the war (bran)** **

 

When the door is _finally_ shut, Winterfell’s mess hall looks… empty, Bran can’t help but think. Everyone has left, Rickon and Osha included – everyone except Jon, Arya, Sansa, Theon, Jeyne Poole, Jeyne Westerling and the direwolves bar Shaggy, and now that they’re all sitting at different places at the table in silence, it feels like everything is hanging on some kind of delicate balance about to be shattered if anyone even utters a word.

He’s halfway sure this is _not_ why they stayed back, either.

Most of the food is gone, too – surely their bannermen didn’t dishonor them, when it came to eat at feasts, and this one hasn’t been an exception.

Bran looks at everyone else still here. Theon and Jeyne Poole are sitting farther down the table, where the lowest bannermen used to sit in Father’s day, Jon is not at the head of the table (Rickon had been there) but at its right, Sansa in front of him, Arya is at the door waiting for something to be delivered and Bran’s next to Jon, his useless legs dangling from his chair, his feet touching the ground without feeling it.

Jeyne Westerling is sitting at the very end, even farther from it than Theon and the other Jeyne are, all in black and looking down at her hands as if there’s really no better thing to stare at in this entire room.

Bran has a feeling that no one is saying a word because everyone in this room feels somehow guilty about the reason why they’re here in the first place.

He thinks, _if someone brought me to the weirwood I could just see him when he was still alive_ , but doesn’t voice that thought. He hasn’t tried to meddle with the past since –

 _Since_ –

He’s just not going to go _there_. There is already one dead to mourn for today and he’s mourned enough, he thinks.

The silence is broken when Arya starts talking to a maid outside the door, and then she motions for _someone_ to come over. Jon and Sansa share a look and stand at the same time, and head for that same direction. The three of them talk in between themselves for a moment – Bran _could_ choose to hear them but won’t – and a moment later Sansa is stalking back towards the table. She slams a tray full of lemoncakes in front of Bran, then goes back where Jon and Arya are bringing over skins of wine – oh, they _really_ ordered someone to bring here the Dornish reserves.

Bran expects Sansa to help them, but they seem to not need any further help and so –

She stalks towards the end of the table and moves in between Theon and Jeyne.

“Go over _there_ ,” she says.

“What –” Theon starts.

“You _both_ heard me. He’d have wanted you to be at the head, and we all know it, and what’s done is done. He also once told me he wanted people to be _happy_ at his funeral, so we are all going there, we’re going to drink until all of us are in our cups enough to regret it on the morrow, we are going to pretend he lived the long and happy life he wished for and you are _not_ going to sulk here while we – while we do otherwise. _Go_.”

Theon sits up at once and Jeyne does as well – Bran has a feeling she only stayed there because she didn’t want him to sit alone, truth to be told – and a moment later Theon’s sitting next to Bran and Jeyne is taking the place in front of him, next to Sansa’s empty seat.

Then Sansa takes a few skins from Jon and leaves him to talk to Lady Jeyne – she seems reluctant to move, but he manages to convince her _somehow_ because she eventually stands and reluctantly sits on Bran’s other side, taking Jon’s former seat. Jon looks wearily at the head of the table where their father once used to sit, then takes a deep breath and sits.

“I ordered to bring wineskins so we would not have to pour all the time,” he says, shrugging. There are cups left on the table, though. “There is enough for all of us and I am personally planning to drink until I bloody pass out.”

Then he grabs one of the skins, opens it and takes a long, deep drink. Bran _is_ surprised when Theon is the first to follow him, and then Sansa, then Arya, then Jeyne Poole, then – well, he doesn’t know if he _can_ get drunk, truth to be told, but he can see the allure.

He is somewhat sure his mother would not have appreciated seeing him trying to achieve that at the ripe age of five and ten, but he hasn’t felt five and ten for a long time.

He takes a long drink just as Lady Jeyne Westerling does the same, and he can’t help thinking that if anything, it tastes good.

\--

It turns out, it was a good idea if anything to make the atmosphere _better_.

Bran does not know what to make of Jon not even looking tipsy after he’s gone through one entire wineskin, but Sansa has turned giggly and Arya’s frowning but not in the cold, angry way she does lately, Lady Jeyne is at least looking at them in the eye, Jeyne Poole is laughing at a story Sansa’s telling about how when she was maybe five Robb spent one afternoon trying on _her_ dresses because she thought it would be funny to see if he fit into them, Theon’s face has a healthier coloring than usual and Bran – well, he’s not _drunk_ or anything but he’s halfway into his first wineskin and does not mind the warm feeling spreading through his gut.

“But _how_ did he even fit into them if you were _five_?” Arya asks Sansa, obviously trying to picture the scene and failing.

Sansa shrugs. “They didn’t fit me. Someone gifted them to me for my nameday but they were larger than my size and I could not wear any of them for a couple of years, at least. They _did_ fit him, though.”

“How did he look?” Arya presses on.

“Terrible,” Sansa laughs. “He made me swear I’d never tell anyone.”

“What an –” Theon starts, the first thing he said all evening. “I mean, fat good it did to him, since he told me.”

“He _did_?” Sansa inquires.

“I asked him what he spent the afternoon doing in your room. He also made me swear I wouldn’t tell a soul, but given that _you_ are doing it, I guess I don’t need to keep my mouth shut about it any longer.”

 _Well_ , Bran thinks, _that wine surely loosened his tongue. He used to have more tolerance for it back before –_

 

Right. _Before_. Given what Bran has seen, he’d imagine why he doesn’t now.

“Guess it was practice for that time I forced him to be the _fair maiden_ for my nameday,” Arya sighs.

“… What?” Bran blurts – he hadn’t known _that_.

“You were – maybe four,” Arya shrugs, taking another drink from her wineskin before throwing it to the side. “I suppose you weren’t there for it. Anyway, he said that since it was my nameday we could do whatever I wanted and I said I wanted to play knight today, not the… _fair maiden_ with Sansa.”

“Oh, gods,” Jon groans, “ _he_ had me and Theon pretending to be some kind of sellswords preventing brave knights to get to _his_ tower. He even wore one of his mother’s shawls. She was livid when she found out but then she realized _you_ asked for it and it had no further consequences.”

“Except staring at us _wrong_ for a week,” Theon sighs, but then he shakes his head and sobers up. “Gods, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have –”

“Theon,” Arya interrupts him, “I think we _all_ know she didn’t like the two of you in the first place. Let’s not – you were in the right. She did. And this is not _her_ funeral.”

“Didn’t – he told me you put flour over your head to prank her, once,” Lady Jeyne says, quietly, from where she’s hunched over her wineskin.

“I did,” Jon sighs. “To my uttermost shame, but Arya really did think I was a ghost. Shit, did he spend his time telling you whatever embarrassing things we were up to when we were too young to know better?”

“He missed you all,” she says, glancing at them before nibbling on a lemoncake and washing it away with some more wine.

“He was my first kiss,” Jeyne Poole blurts a moment later, and _everyone_ knew about it in this room, Bran wagers, but maybe just Sansa ( _and himself_ ) have ever seen or heard a first-hand account of it. “It was – in the weirwood. I – I said I saw some maid kissing the stablehand near the kitchens, and I was curious, and he said he was, too, because he never did it with anyone either.” She shrugs, drinks some more, and – “I thought it was nice, back then.”

“And now?” Bran prompts when she doesn’t continue.

“Now I’m beyond grateful he took it,” she replies before taking a long, long drink. Bran can hear _would that he had taken my maidenhead, too, because then it wouldn’t have been Ramsay Bolton_ , but he knows why she didn’t voice it and honestly, it’s better left alone.

“Whenever he came back from going the rounds with Hallis he always stayed up the night with Maester Luwin _going over accounts_ ,” Bran says, and why did it sound _angry_ and why didn’t he even think before speaking? Mayhaps it’s the wine. It might be. He just knows that it seemed like everyone was discussing some memory they had of Robb and he doesn’t know _why_ that was the first thing that came to mind. “Every – every night. He always looked so tired when he was back, but he still did it himself. I thought – I thought he didn’t care about us anymore. I mean, Rickon and I.” He almost feels ashamed saying it, now that he knows – _now that he knows_ how it really wasn’t what he thought it was. “I didn’t even _understand_ how tired he must have been.”

“Bran, you were eight,” Jon replies. “And you just – you just lost your legs. No one would blame you for that. Least of all Robb.”

“I know, but – you know, he told me we should have ridden to the Wall. To visit you.”

Jon obviously _hadn’t_ known, because his eyes turn surprised and then he throws away his empty wineskin and grabs for the third.

He still doesn’t look halfway drunk.

“We didn’t. Because he had to call the banners first. He – he was too young,” Bran blurts, washing it down with more wine.

“I know,” Jon says, and it’s obvious he’s speaking from experience.

“He was,” Lady Jeyne agrees, sobbing, and no one else says a thing but they all rise their skins towards the ceiling and drink some more after that.

Sometimes Bran used to wonder why bad things happen to good people. He has seen enough now to know it’s a worthless question to ask.

Then he thinks that everyone else had been quick to send to war a boy of barely five and ten who was barely trained to run a castle never mind handle an army, and as the wine burns down his throat he thinks, not for the first or last time, that there is absolutely nothing fair about the way bad things happen to good people (and Robb was a good person, on _that_ no one would have had doubts).

He thinks, _today I could show him that I can fly, and what is riding a horse in comparison_ , but he knows not so deep in his heart that he’d give that up in a heartbeat if it meant going with Robb to the Wall on a proper horse while their mother saw the two of them off.

Too bad that it was not in any of the futures he had the chance to see before he decided he was better off never trying to ever look into what was to come.

He empties his own wineskin and moves to the next one before he can think about _that_ any further.

 

****5. when I said goodbye to you, I remember how I swore that I'd come back to you one day (jon)** **

  

He had hoped this might be the right time.

After he throws away the next wineskin, his sixth, Jon has to come to terms with it – this is not the day he manages to reach the blissful oblivion that only drinking will bring you, same as it’s been since –

Since he came back.

No one knows that he can’t get drunk anymore save for Sam, who swore he’d never tell a soul (and he hasn’t), but he had hoped that maybe, if he had _more than usual_ , if he had more than enough, maybe he _could_.

Gods, he had _hoped_. He sees Sansa laughing with tears in her eyes as she asks Jeyne details about that time she and Robb kissed, Jeyne is smiling freely and Jon hasn’t seen her doing it in such an open way since – since before she left for King’s Landing, even _Theon_ is looking less gloomy than usual even if he’s not drinking as much as he could. Arya hasn’t either, but her cheeks are redder than usual and she and Bran are discussing something quietly while clinking their glasses against each other – right. They moved on to pouring wine into glasses like civilized people.

Ghost growls softly at his feet – he hasn’t moved since Jon sat, same for Nymeria and Summer who are still crouched next to Arya and Bran.

Anyway, it seems like everyone in this room is, at least, able to… maybe let go a bit. Forget property. _Get drunk_ like… like regular people.

And – thing is, at least it seems like everyone else is thinking about happy memories, or at least the more they get in their cups the more the stories seem to be happier, but he’s completely, sadly sober and there’s just one he can’t seem to take off his mind.

“My lord?”

He shakes his head and turns towards Jeyne Westerling, who has been sitting there for a while without speaking much and who’s… well, not drunk either. She’s barely into her first wineskin.

“My lady,” he replies. “Is there anything amiss… other than the obvious?”

“You seem… remarkably unaffected.”

He shrugs. “That would be because I _am_ unaffected.” He breathes – in and out –, then looks back at her. She doesn’t seem… well, horrified. For now. “I am sure you know that news of my death were, in fact… somewhat exaggerated.”

“I did.”

“All the same, they weren’t… too much. I mean, I did die. Then I came back, but – never mind. I haven’t been able to be _affected_ since it happened and I’m afraid I never will be again.”

“… Some men would kill for that,” she declares after a moment of silence.

“Maybe, but they would regret it after a few months, I think. For one, I really wish I could right now, but I imagine it’s not meant to be. But it’s not the worst thing about it.”

“May – may I ask what’s the worst thing about it?”

He shrugs, figuring he might as well tell her.

“Coming back – does wonders to make you feel like you are not quite human anymore. _This_ isn’t helping.”

Jeyne nods, as if she _understands_ –

“He told me something like that, once.”

“Who, _Robb_?”

She gives him a nod, her eyes turning even sadder than they were at the funeral, and he has seen how sad she had looked _then_.

“What – what did he say?”

“He said – sometimes, after he had been with his wolf for a while, that he’d feel… barely human anymore. And that in between the way most people treated him like a _king_ and not like a person, or something like that, it wasn’t helping either. I never quite understood what he meant with that first statement, but I could understand the second. I think.”

Jon feels like someone’s just knocked the breath out of his lungs.

Too bad he understands _both_.

And he thinks, _of course he wouldn’t. No one explained that to him, not that anyone did it with me, but I also didn’t have my enemies spreading lies about me turning into a wolf during battles and being some kind of monster. And no one warned him that the moment he stepped in charge he would be the King in the North and not Robb Stark, same as I had to be Lord Commander and not Jon Snow anymore – at least someone did it with me, even if I do not know if I had understood it truly._

 And then he thinks, _if he had really visited men the way he said he would maybe we could have talked about it, because didn’t we use to talk about everything back when –_

 _Now_ he feels all the wine he’s drunk, though it’s still not going to his head; rather, it’s resting on his stomach heavy as lead, and he feels it all there, same as he’s felt a lot of other unpleasant things, and he thinks, _the first time we drank wine without authorization Robb couldn’t hold it and he threw up in the bushes and I didn’t have enough to be affected because I figured one of us should know what we were doing, and if I actually do the same now without being even drunk I will –_

He stumbles to his feet and kicks away the thrice-darned seat, turning away from Jeyne because she really doesn’t deserve _this_ on top of everything else, and he makes it as far as the nearest corner of the room before throwing up what little dinner he had.

 _Of course_ , he thinks, his head spinning, _I would get to suffer the consequences without even the solace I was seeking in those cups_ , and then he tries to get back to his feet up he _can’t_ , he can’t –

Someone’s hands grasp at his hair, pulling his head upwards. Not too strongly, though, but enough to keep him from toppling over. For a moment, he thinks it must be Sansa, but then –

“Jon?”

Then she’s at his side, her fingers grasping at his arm, and Arya’s on the other, shaking his shoulder. It cannot be Bran. He doubts it’s either Jeyne, which leaves –

He turns his head to the side enough to see that yes, it’s Theon, who’s looking at him as if… _he gets it_?

He looks back at Sansa. “It’s – it’s all right. I guess it still affects me. Just not the way I would like it to.”

“Jon, you haven’t looked anywhere close to _all right_ since – since you gave me Needle,” Arya says, and that’s… sadly _true_ , hells, and then she’s grapping his arm and pulling him upwards and they’re dragging him back to the seat. Everyone else still at the table (both Jeynes and Bran) is looking at him worriedly, and Jon would like to assure them that he’s fine and this is not about _him_ , but –

“Before I left,” he blurts. “I mean, when I was about to leave for the Wall. He came to find me in the yard. We talked. It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. He said – next time we’d see each other I’d be all in black and I lied to him about having seen his mother, and he looked happy about it. I just – I had no idea that we’d never – that it would be the last time. And you just said he actually wanted to _visit_ and I’m thinking that if you had maybe – never mind. I thought we _would_ see each other again. If I had known – but it’s useless to think about it. I – sorry, I wanted to talk about something _good_ , not… not this.”

Suddenly, that fragile cheery atmosphere that was in the room before is gone, and of course it is, because he just went and blurted out the saddest thing anyone’s brought up this evening, and he hopes that no one asks him what he meant by _I lied about having seen his mother_ , because then he should explain what _that_ was about and Bran doesn’t deserve to know about it, and neither does anyone else because it’s still _their_ mother and she didn’t deserve the end she met ( _both ends_ , a small voice tells him), and –

“Snow,” Theon says a moment later, breaking that uncomfortable silence, “he _did_ say all the time that you couldn’t hold your drinks and that you became even less of a joy to be around when you had wine. I’m sure that if he was here he wouldn’t be surprised at all that _you_ would be the first to throw up.”

For a moment Jon’s completely _floored_ because he hasn’t heard Theon sound _this_ … well, _not_ deferential since they met again and he saw what came out of his stay at the Dreadfort, and he hadn’t expected him to speak at all, but –

Fuck that. He’s right. He’s actually right, Robb _did_ tell him that more than once, _Jon, you shouldn’t really drink at all, it makes you sulk too much even for your limits,_ and he hadn’t thought about it in years, and –

He snorts. Gods be good, he actually _laughs_ when he can’t remember the last time he did, it was probably when he saw Arya again after years (she was the last of them to come back North) and that was a long time ago, and he hadn’t thought he’d have to thank Theon of all people for it, but –

“You know what,” he says, as a few tears escape his eyelids and he has to lean on Sansa’s arm because his legs feel like melted butter right now, “there’s something Robb used to say about you when any of us asked why he enjoyed your company so much.”

“Really. What was that?”

“ _Sometimes I want to be around someone who’ll make me laugh_ , and then I’d ask _how_ you would accomplish that since I didn’t find anything to laugh about in your attitude, and he said, _that’s it though, he can make anything funny even if it isn’t_. I hadn’t – I hadn’t understood what he meant until now, but I think I just did.”

He erupts into another fit of laughter which _might_ sound a tad hysterical, but then everyone else is going along with it and Theon’s cheeks are sort of flushed as he drinks some more, and gods, Jeyne Westerling is also looking slightly less miserable than before, and he doesn’t protest when Arya drops him in the seat next to Bran’s.

“Jon?” He asks a moment later, his voice low enough that Jon understands immediately that it’s supposed to be a private conversation. “You know, you are being… very noble about it, but – if you want to not tell _them_ , fine. About our mother, I mean.”

“What –”

“I think you might have forgotten that I don’t just warg into animals.”

 _Oh_.

Jon is a fucking _idiot_. Bran was the one telling him about – _about Jon’s mother_ , before Howland Reed could, and he did because he _saw_ his birth, or so he says, of course he would know – he would _know_.

“I – I’m sorry you had to see it,” Jon shrugs, hoping to deflate this conversation.

“Jon, gods be – she was my mother, _our_ mother, and I know she loved us more than any of us can conceive, and I also know she wasn’t to _you_ , and we’ve been through enough. I _saw_ it. I’m sorry you had to live it, for that matter, and Robb would have been, too, but I also – I think that if she knew the truth she wouldn’t have been… the way she was to you. Anyway, if you don’t want to discuss it with _them_ , I understand, but don’t feel like you have to spare _me_ from it. I know already.”

On one side, it’s horrific, and on the other it’s liberating, and regardless of everything, he really doesn’t regret having lied to Robb about it. If anything, he didn’t deserve to suffer for _that_ , too.

He has more wine. It still doesn’t affect him at all, but it doesn’t settle on his stomach like lead and for now it’s enough.

 

****6. I told you I'd always love you I always did and I always will (jeyne westerling)** **

 

“I can see what – what Lord Stark meant, too.”

Theon Greyjoy, who had ended up on the seat next to her after they rearranged their position, almost chokes on his drink and turns towards Jeyne, and he looks – he looks as if he’s fishing for words, but she thinks she knows why.

“About – about why Robb liked hanging around me?” He asks, a certain melancholy to his tone that Jeyne can’t begrudge him.

“You about saved the entire evening a few minutes ago,” she shrugs. “Besides… it was a little bit amusing.”

“Glad to hear it,” he says, and takes another drink before nibbling on a lemoncake he’s been painstakingly going through for the last… well, he’s been at it for a long time.

He looks at her, then at his lemoncake, then at her again, then he drinks a bit more, then –

“I think I owe you an apology, even if it’s nowhere near enough by now.”

“… I beg your pardon?”

He shrugs. “My lady, I have a feeling that if I had been thinking straight when I took Robb’s castle you would not be here and maybe no one here… well. I think you understand.”

Oh. Right. She thought he would say _that_.

On one side, she feels like she should accept the apology, even if it’s all done and over. On another, a part of her she thinks sounds too much like her mother is telling her, _you haven’t seen his face when he received that letter, how could you?_ , but… it’s on his face. He must have imagined it thoroughly, and she’s shed too many tears in the last few years to strike that kind of low blow to someone who looks like they have taken too many.

Never mind that she hates her mother.

“I thought about it for a long time,” she admits. “If – if he might have survived, had I been – if I hadn’t let him – you understand. I mean, I didn’t stop him and I _wanted_ it, he didn’t – force himself or anything of the kind. Then – maybe it facilitated things. But – gods, I cannot believe _who_ told me.”

“… Who told you what?”

“Jaime Lannister out of all people. When he was in Riverrun. He – did not seem to like my mother, either. She told him she had been involved with the wedding. At some point, he took me aside and told me that if his father wanted Robb dead and went as far as buying Lord Frey for that, he’d have died regardless of having married me or not. It was – well. I felt less bad about it. Maybe you should, too.”

Theon seems to consider that argument. “It’s fair,” he agrees. “But that’s… not the whole matter.”

“May I ask what would it be?”

He shrugs, obviously considering whether to tell her or not.

“Maybe he’d have died anyway. But I’d have been with him, at least.”

She says nothing as he drains what was left of his skin in one long drink. He throws it away, shaking his head.

“I – I can see why he was _that_ distressed when he thought you had… done something you actually didn’t do.” She figures mentioning _killed his brothers_ in front of one of one of them wouldn’t be a good idea. “Sometimes I think I should have gone to the wedding,” she whispers, and she hadn’t thought she’d ever tell a soul, but somehow it escaped her lips and she had never confided _that_ specific notion to anyone.

He looks at her in such raw understanding it almost hurts to hold his stare.

“I – I ran after him twice. I mean. To see him off. I just – after the third time they had to drag me back because I was about to tell them that I didn’t – I didn’t care that Lord Walder would have seen my presence as an insult. Which was the reason why I couldn’t go, even if now I know my mother would have found another if that one hadn’t been feasible. But then I didn’t go with them. And – he said he would see me soon. I told him I loved him. What good did it do,” she mutters, and then _finally_ finishes the wine she had left in her glass. It burns down her throat but she thinks she needed it.

As much as she needed to tell someone – what she’s just told Theon.

“He saw me off twice,” Theon whispers a moment later.

“ _What_?”

“When I left for Pyke. First at camp. Then – he ran after us to give me a piece of paper I had forgotten and that I might have needed, and I swore I’d be back soon. I joked about it. At least you could _tell_ him.”

 _That you loved him_ , he doesn’t say, but Jeyne hears it well enough.

“I did,” she replies, helplessly. “I really did.”

“I’m sure he knew. Be glad of that, because he couldn’t know that I – that I never meant any of what I did to him, and now he never will be able to.”

“I think he’d have forgiven you, if he had known,” Jeyne tells him, her hand going to his left wrist. It’s shaking slightly, the three fingers he has left on his hand grasping at his cloak. Thing is, it might sound like a lie to make him feel better about it, but from what Robb told her about their friendship, from how he reacted when he saw that letter and from how _distressed_ he was whenever Theon was the subject of any conversation, she knows he would have.

“Maybe if I keep telling myself that, I’ll learn to live with it,” Theon admits. “Then again… were you happy with him?”

“Of course. I – I should hope it was the same for him.”

“Believe me, he wasn’t the kind to do something out of duty and pretend to enjoy it if he did not. If he married you, then he wanted to. He did a lot of things everyone else would have considered pretty fucking stupid, his parents first and foremost, but if he wanted them hard enough then he wouldn’t give a damn.”

“You seem to speak from experience.”

“Well,” he says, and now he’s smiling _fondly_? “As Jon over there can assure you, Robb’s mother didn’t have much love lost for him, but they were _brothers_ anyway. At least their father approved of it, though. When it came to _me_ , neither of them did. Nor the maester, nor just about everyone who had a say in giving him counsel.” He shrugs, then swallows what was left of his lemoncake. “But he _really_ was convinced we should be friends and no one managed to make him change his mind. Believe me, you _shouldn’t hope_. You should _know_ it was the same for him.”

“Sometimes,” Jeyne replies, taking that whole speech in, “sometimes I feel like I might never be able to love anyone else just because no one could be _him._ How pathetic is that?”

“My lady, after I ran from Winterfell I thought everyone in this room would have wanted a turn at taking my head for what I did to him. And I also know that – I will never be close to anyone the way I was to him, but I was proved wrong on the first assumption, I don’t think I quite want to die yet when – not so long ago I was ready for it. You never know. And it’s not pathetic, or we would _all_ be right now.”

Given that most people in this room are in various states of drunkenness or tipsiness or are suffering the effects while trying to move on with their lives and to deal with the fact that Robb isn’t coming back and that they should all lay him to rest already, maybe he has a point.

“Thank you,” she tells him.

“For what?”

“You said a lot of things I needed to hear,” she answers, and then pours a fresh glass for the both of them from her second newly opened wineskin – he was having troubles doing it with his, now that her namesake is sitting across the table next to Sansa and he has less fingers than he’d like. “Shall we –” She starts.

He smirks a tiny bit – she can see a flash of silver in between what’s visible of his teeth.

“We shall,” he replies. “To Robb, wherever he is. Hopefully he’s glad that everyone in this room is getting along.”

She smiles as she brings the glass to her lips. She remembers how fondly he talked of his family, how excited he had been for her to meet at least Sansa and Arya when they hoped they might be recovered, how fond and proud he sounded when talking about his bastard brother at the Wall, how his eyes would go sad remembering his little brothers he had thought dead, how his brow furrowed whenever the topic of his mother disliking Jon Snow _that_ much was breached, or how torn he had felt when he told her about how and why he had trusted Theon ( _how could I be so wrong? I am never this wrong when judging someone I know_ ), thinks of how much she misses him and how much she will always miss him, but somehow – somehow it hurts less now. And yes, he would have rejoiced at seeing them all get along. Maybe he’d have asked, _so I had to die to make it happen_ , and she’d have asked him where that came from

( _sometimes he’d joke like that, in a way that just didn’t feel like his usual self. He’d say he took after a former friend when it came to inappropriate jokes. She thinks she knows who that friend was, or is_ )

and he’d have smiled and shaken his head and said he could think of worse consequences.

“To Robb, and I am sure he’s thinking that _at least_ something good came out of… the reason why we’re here,” she replies, and then they clink their glasses one against the other softly before they both drink.

For the first time in the evening, she actually tastes the wine she’s sipping.

She’s surprised to find out, that it tastes good.

 

**7. there’s nothing left to say, except to say adieu to your eyes as blue as the water in the bay (theon)**

 

The sky is tentatively turning pink when Arya’s empty glass falls sideways on the table and Theon realizes that he and Jon are the only two who are still awake.

Sansa has passed out a while ago, Jeyne with her – they’re lying down on the table with their heads pillowed on their arms, next to each other. Arya’s just joined them, Bran slouched in his chair a while ago and has been sleeping since, Robb’s wife is doing the same on the opposite side of the table –

And it’s just the two of them left.

Jon looks plenty awake and alert now, and Theon’s fairly sure that he only suffered the side effects but never was drunk _himself_ , and for what concerns Theon… well, he sleeps little these days, and he always could hold his drinks, and he’s taken care of eating in between cups, and while he feels positively tipsy he’s not feeling like sleeping nor like he’s going to throw up or anything similarly unpleasant.

Who’d have guessed, he thinks, looking at the other side of the table where Jon is turning an empty glass in between his hands.

“Do you want to give it another try?” Theon asks, breaking the silence. “There’s some wine left.”

“I have a feeling it would be useless,” Jon shrugs. “But pour me some more anyway.”

Theon does, then shrugs and pours another full glass for himself. It’s _good_ , and he doesn’t usually indulge in sweet Dornish of the best quality – he might as well take advantage of it. He expects Jon to drink it, but he doesn’t, so Theon stalls and not just because a lingering part of him that didn’t die with Ramsay Bolton and hasn’t left yet is telling him to _not_ take any initiative if the person in charge hasn’t done the same already.

“Can you… taste it, at least?” Theon asks when Jon says nothing.

“I haven’t really taken time to do it, I was just hoping that it would have an effect.”

“It’s good wine. You should savor it.” _Like all of us should have savored a lot of other things when we didn’t know how good we had it when we had them_.

Jon shrugs and takes a sip, but he doesn’t swallow at once. He takes some time to actually taste it, and then –

“You have a point. It _is_ good.” He places the cup back down on the table – the cloth is stained in red.

“I keep on thinking,” Theon blurts, and he wouldn’t have if he wasn’t tipsy, but somehow it just stumbles out of his mouth, “that this is just – _he_ hoped for years that we’d be civil to each other without him being in the middle and now look at us.”

“We _are_ being plenty civil,” Jon snorts, but it’s obvious he understood what Theon is fishing at here. “Gods, I know. I guess – better late than never?”

Theon _has_ to laugh at that, and patience if Jon sees more of his teeth than he’d have liked.

“Well, wherever he is, he’s… not hating this, I guess.”

“No. No, I think it’s exactly what he’d have wanted,” Jon whispers, glancing at his side where Sansa’s hair is spreading on the table. “Maybe not _exactly_ , but – he’d have liked it.”

 _Maybe if it hadn’t taken this long –_ he starts thinking, and then doesn’t even try to pursue that train of thought. It’s not worth it. Everything he’s accomplished since he realized he should have been with Robb but _wasn’t_ while climbing on those stairs years ago (at this point) he hasn’t accomplished thinking about the _if_ s. Sometimes he spends sleepless nights going over everything that could have been, but he tries not to in general because otherwise he would have begged Jon to take his head a long time ago.

It could have been a worse funeral, he thinks. Of course, it would have been better had it been held years from now, with more than a handful of people sitting around the damned table, but it was still better than nothing. They said everything they could remember, they recounted every damned _dumb_ embarrassing thing Robb ever was part of that they could recall, and he feels better for it if anything because he also feels like he has righted a few wrongs that had been weighing on him –

( _he thinks about Jeyne Westerling’s small, sincere smile as she drank with him and his shoulders feel lighter_ )

– and now he thinks the only thing that’s missing is a _real_ decent send off.

“So,” he tells Jon, grabbing back his own cup. “Your funeral speech from before was shit, no offense.”

“None taken. It was.”

“Maybe he deserves a better one.”

“And maybe _we_ should come up with it so that we definitely make him happy, wherever he is right now?”

“Can we?”

Jon shrugs, smiling ever so slightly. “Should we wake them for it?”

Theon replies by grabbing Jeyne by the wrist with his left hand and shaking her awake – she never has _horrible_ reactions if she feels it’s him – and then does the same with the other Jeyne, while Jon rouses his siblings.

“What,” Arya mutters. “My head is pounding. There’s too much light. Couldn’t you have just let me _sleep_?”

“No, because I think it’s time for a proper speech,” Jon tells her, and she sobers up at once. Sansa groans as she sits back up and Bran at least doesn’t look like he’s hungover. “Since me and _him_ are the only ones who haven’t passed out yet we might start, but if you want to join in maybe you should all be awake for it.”

“Theon, _how_ are you even standing?” Jeyne asks him, shaking her head as she slumps against Sansa.

“I drink responsibly,” he deadpans, and she laughs, pulling herself upright.

“Right, let’s just – let’s do this,” Jon says, and everyone else goes quiet as he hands over the last wineskin. Everyone fills their cups, even if Theon thinks that Jon and him are about the only two people not looking disgusted at the prospect of actually touching any more wine, but they do need the last toast, don’t they?

“Go first,” Sansa tells him. “You’re _sober_. I don’t think anyone else could come up with an – acceptable start.”

Jon takes in a deep breath, then nods and doesn’t look at his hands anymore. He looks a lot more at ease now than he did in the crypts, Theon thinks, but then again everyone does. Him first and foremost.

“We are – we are – oh, to the seven hells with this.” He shakes his head, clears his throat and starts again. “None of us relish being here,” he says, sounding a lot surer of what he’s saying. “Truth to be told, we all would prefer to be somewhere else, or at least – we all would prefer to be here for a wholly different reason than remembering Robb Stark, but life never goes the way we picture. Sometimes for better, sometimes for worse, and _this_ definitely was a case of the latter kind, and there’s nothing to do about it except burying him and moving on.” He stops, his fingers tightening around the cup. “We _did_ lay him to rest before, as far as putting his bones where they belonged goes. But it was a shit send-off that he did not deserve, and I shan’t bury him _in my mind_ until he does, so I’ll – say everything I haven’t this morning.” The last two words don’t come out _steady_ , but no one tells him. Theon doubts anyone could interrupt him if they wanted to.

“I don’t remember a time of my life when _he_ wasn’t there until I left for the Wall. For better or worse, he was always there. He was my _brother_ , even if we didn’t know that Ned Stark was my father only in name, and I’m sure that it wouldn’t have changed things had we known. He – sometimes he said things that hurt me without realizing it, but I never held it against him because I know he didn’t mean them. I – admittedly, I left also because I thought that with Father gone there would be no place for the two of us in the same castle, and I was an idiot to think that, and I don’t know if he realized it or not but eventually, it didn’t matter. It didn’t because he was the best person I could have asked to grow up with, it didn’t matter because I loved him, and sometimes I wonder what would have been if we had the chance to grow old in the same place, but there’s no point in pondering over something long gone. I know – I know that when I saw his will I cried, and I thought I lost the ability for it. I miss him every thrice-darned day and I wish we could have talked about how there’s nothing glorious or noble in having to lead men four times your age who think you can do no wrong, or expect you to. I know he made mistakes, same as I did, and still, he deserved nothing of what he got. He was my brother. I will always miss him. And I really do hope he rests in peace, because the gods know he didn’t have enough of it when he lived.”

He leans back against the chair, looking exhausted but like someone just lifted a weight off his shoulders, and for a moment no one says a thing.

“Jon,” Sansa pouts, “that was unfair of you. No one is ever going to come up with a better speech and we’re _drunk_ :”

“I don’t think it’s the point,” Arya sighs. “Very well. I – I’ll just – I almost was at the Twins before the wedding. I thought I would see him again, and then I didn’t, and sometimes I wonder, would it have been better to reach them in time? I don’t know. I don’t _know_ , and I wish I did, and I will always be awfully sorry for the way we left – I thought we’d see each other soon and I didn’t really want to go to King’s Landing _that_ much. It could have been a better send-off. But – throughout _everything_ , I thought I would only pull through if I was as strong and brave as he was, because he _was_ the strongest and bravest person I knew, and I’m sorry he died thinking that he was the only one left of us except for the two of you,” – she nods towards Sansa and Jon before breathing in and starting to talk again –, “and wherever he is, I hope he can see that. I – I think I’m done,” she adds, quietly, as she leans back on her chair.

“This is probably not appropriate for a _funeral_ ,” _his_ Jeyne says as she leans over her elbows, obviously trying to stay upright, “but I am _very_ drunk and I s’ppose no one cares for… being proper. I didn’t know him as well as you did, but he never was mean to me or looked at me as a steward’s daughter was lesser than him. I can’t r’member who out of the two of us thought kissing in the weirwood was a good idea, neither of us thought it meant anythin’ beyond trying it out and see how it was, but he was very gallant about it, we both enjoyed it for what it was, and I’m beyond grateful that at least _he_ was the person I kissed first. Sometimes –” She stops, shakes her head and clears her throat, and Theon has a feeling he knows _who_ she’s going to mention –, “when I – just after the _wedding_ , he – _he_ ’d talk a lot about being the _first_ to do to me things I’d rather never think about as long as I live. He thought he had been the first to take a lot of things from me. I couldn’t be happier that when it came to _kissing_ , he wasn’t.”

For a moment, the silence is so heavy Theon thinks it could be cut through with a knife, and then the _other_ Jeyne, the one who actually wedded Robb, speaks.

“I thought for a while that it was my fault that he died. Now – now I know it’s more complicated than that, but – even when I did, I still couldn’t bear the thought of never having known him at all. We met when he was distressed and – maybe in other circumstances he’d have left and my sheets wouldn’t have been stained in blood, but I still – I thought he’d leave. I wouldn’t have begrudged him. He didn’t, and for how little he lasted we were happy, and even if it was obvious that the more time passed the more he resented his role he never once made me feel guilty for it. I don’t know what I did right to deserve having him in my life for that little we had together, but I’m grateful for it. And – I know that no one else would have risked losing his war for someone below his House or his name or his status, and I loved him for that, too. And I know I wouldn’t have resented him for it if I had gone to that wedding.”

“Knowing him,” Sansa says softly before anyone else can contradict that notion, “ _he_ wouldn’t have wanted you to. He – he always wanted everyone around him to be happy. And I – I dreamed that he’d bring me Joffrey’s head, I admit it, and then I always thought, he wouldn’t do something so gruesome. He was more honorable than that. I – I also thought I should have been as brave as him, if I wanted to survive in King’s Landing or anywhere else. I still try to do it. And I also can’t remember a single day before we left for King’s Landing when he wasn’t around, and I wish – I wish he could see us right now, because I think – I think he’d be happy.”

“He would be,” Bran whispers before clearing his throat and moving forward. He’s also using his elbows to keep himself upright, and he has a certain dreamy look to his eyes Theon doesn’t remember him ever having before he broke his spine. “I – that time when you saved me in the woods,” he tells Theon all of a sudden, and Theon almost knocks his cup on the table. Damn. He hadn’t expected Bran to bring _that_ up. “I think he only ever screamed at you because before I – kind of made him feel bad for listening to you. Don’t say anything,” he says when Theon opens his mouth to clarify, “it was true. He was there saying he listened to everyone equally, and I was trying to make him feel bad for spending more time without and Hallis than with _me_ , and now – now I know that it was because with all the responsibilities he had, being with the two of you made him feel less burdened. Back then I didn’t.”

“You were _eight_ ,” Theon sighs, wishing they could just leave it.

“I know. Still, he only ever wanted all of us to get along. He kind of… made us all get along, now that I think about it.”

Everyone laughs at that, and it’s _true_ , because for some reason when Robb was around _none_ of the people in this room ever disagreed or let show any disliking towards each other, deserved or not, except maybe for him and Jon, but that was – something else.

“I remember a lot of good things about him,” Bran says, “but – that time he said we should have gone to the Wall together to surprise Jon… after surprising my mother, of course, he – he sounded so _convinced_ of it, and then I don’t remember what I asked him that made him realize that he couldn’t afford to make time for something as frivolous, and then he started crying. I don’t know how much he did that _after_ , but – every time, I just remember that he couldn’t stop and that he sounded miserable, and I ask myself why _he_ out of everyone had to meet the end he did, and I don’t – I can’t ever know that. But that was the kind of person he was, and maybe for some it’d have been weak, but to me it _wasn’t_. I wanted to be as brave as him, too. I think I still want to, even if there might not be the need anymore.”

Theon thinks the two of them should talk again, _later_ , but now –

Now he’s the only one left.

Fuck. He hopes he doesn’t end up slurring over his words or stumbling over them, but he thinks it won’t happen. He knows what he has to say. He _does_.

“I – I think I apologized for what I did to him so many times to _you_ that you’re all sick of hearing it. I only could do it to you because I can’t – I can’t apologize to _him_ now, can I, so – that’s why, but I won’t do it again if only to spare you from that. I will tell you that – the lady here wouldn’t have resented him if she had gone to that wedding, I and I know I wish I had been there every day when I go to bed and every morning when I wake up, and I know I’d have never found the guts to live on if I hadn’t realized that _he_ was the person I should have been with. But – screw this. Before my father rebelled, I did have a few people I was close to on the islands, but none of my brothers were them, and neither was my sister. Nor my father, for that matter. When I arrived here, I knew that I could never – I mean, I _knew_ Lord Stark was under an oath to take my head should my father rebel. I was expecting nothing except maybe being treated fairly, and then on the third day Robb came to the room I was given, dragged me out of it with the excuse of seeing the weirwood and he wanted to know about the Iron Islands and how the sea looked like, and – I told him it was blue, and it was a frankly _stupid_ answer. He asked me, what kind of blue. I looked back at him – he was half my size for the next three years or so – and, I hadn’t really had that kind of conversation with anyone else before. I told him, _the same blue as your eyes if the sun’s shining, otherwise it’s nothing that nice_. He said it was the nicest compliment anyone ever gave him, and it wasn’t even _supposed_ to be one, but – never mind. What I mean is that, until I lost everything I had because of my own stupid actions, not counting my mother and a few people back home with whom I didn’t _grow up_ , he was the one person I actually didn’t put up some front with, and he still liked what he saw, and sometimes I ask myself what he saw in me to keep on being friends with me regardless of what his parents thought or what _anyone else_ thought, and I can’t ask him anymore. But I know he saw – he thought I was worth the effort. I like to think I can understand that at some point. And since I let him down once when it counted, I guess I’m trying to live up to it now. It’s the least his memory deserves.”

His throat _hurts_ – he doesn’t think he’s ever spoken this much in a row for a very long time. That’s not a surprise.

What’s a surprise is that when he meets the eyes of everyone else around the table they look… moved? Sansa is _crying_ , Arya is looking at him in a way that’s – he doesn’t know what but not _blank_ as usual, Bran looks like he understands it, Jeyne is sniffling, Robb’s wife is giving him a heartfelt nod as she sniffs and dries her eyes with the sleeve of her dress and Jon is looking at him like he _gets_ it on a visceral level, and Theon doesn’t even want to think about what that might imply.

He’s just glad he did manage a worthy send-off.

He raises up his cup. “Shall we?” He asks, breaking the silence before it becomes uncomfortable.

“Yes,” Jon says, moving closer. “To Robb,” he says, and everyone else echoes as their cups clink against each other.

Theon is not surprised that he and Jon are the only two out of seven whose wine doesn’t end up spilled on the tablecloth, but they were the only ones with steady hands, after all.

He glances around the table. Jon drinks his own cup down as if it was water, Sansa and Jeyne barely take a sip out of theirs before slamming them back down on the table, Arya swallows her drink in one gulp before throwing the cup on the ground. Bran takes small sips, same as Robb’s wife.

Theon turns to the window, looking out of it. The sky is a warm pink by now, but some part of it is – as blue as Robb’e eyes had looked that day when he compared them to the sea in Pyke (Robb never knew that Theon meant its color when it was calm and the waves were almost caressing the sand, not when it was dark gray during a storm).

Somehow, it’s a fitter weather for this than this morning’s.

 _Farewell_ , Theon thinks, even if he knows that no one could _fare well_ beyond death, if there’s something after –

But it’s still nice to assume, for now, that it might, because if anyone deserved it, it was Robb.

He brings the cup to his lips and decides that he has never tasted wine so bittersweet, but right now he’s glad he’s here to drink it, as he knows Robb would have wanted.

When he finally puts the cup down on the table, it’s completely empty.

 

End.


End file.
